


Clean Cut American Kid

by trashcangimmick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Billy Has A Hard Time, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Gaslighting, Homophobia, M/M, Maladaptive Thought Patterns, Misogyny, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Racist Language, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Billy is smart, good at sports, and pretty like a young starlet. Life should be easy for him. He pretends it is.





	1. Shout At The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno my dudes, I been working through some stuff re: my own trauma. It's been cathartic for me, your milage may vary. If it's not clear from the tags, this could be very triggering so proceed with caution. Billy says/thinks a lot of things that are reflections of his abuse—and definitely meant to be taken in that context. I’m a Billy apologist, don’t @ me.

 

Neil Hargrove wasn’t always angry.

 

Billy remembers warm California nights, playing catch on the front lawn. He remembers going to Angels games on Saturday afternoons, sitting in the nosebleeds, eating stadium peanuts. He remembers grocery shopping and getting to push the cart or hold the list, as long as he behaved himself. He remembers going to the beach and collecting shells as his parents sat under an umbrella drinking beers from a cooler. 

 

But then Mrs. Dorothy Anne Hargrove ran off with her tennis coach and the world crumbled in on itself. 

 

You see, Billy looks like her. He has her eyes. Nose. Even her curly blonde hair. He looks like  _ that fucking bitch _ and it’s gasoline to the simmering fire that’s always lived just behind his father’s eyes. 

 

***

 

It doesn’t start with broken arms or bruised ribs. It starts with screaming and beer bottles shattered on the floor. Billy learns quickly that things he used to get away with are no longer acceptable. He used to play baseball and climb trees after school. Since  _ that bitch _ left, he cooks dinner and does the dishes. He washes and folds the laundry. He makes sure the house is spotless, because the yelling terrifies him. 

 

On Christmas, Billy breaks a plate, one of the good plates that his grandmother left them, and that means an open-handed slap across the face. Billy deserves it, you see, that plate was irreplaceable and he was just being careless. A selfish brat, head always in the clouds. He needs someone to bring him crashing back to earth. 

 

The week after that, there’s ice cream every night after dinner. His father lets him stay up a little later than usual. 

 

Neil Hargrove is a good person. A caring father. Works so hard just go keep a roof over their heads. Billy should be grateful.

 

***

 

Billy is smart. There’s no other option. He doesn’t have to be told what happens if his report card comes back with anything other than straight A’s. 

 

Billy is good at sports. Basketball. Baseball. Football. He loves football, despite the fact that he’s not the biggest kid in his grade. He makes up for it with a recklessness that scares people. Always ready to launch himself at a target and send it crashing to the ground. Ready to fight dirty and get flagged for pulling a mask. 

 

He wonders if anger is genetic. A heritable trait. Like the blue eyes and blond hair and the sweet face that were the only things  _ that bitch _ really gave him. 

 

Billy is smart. So he knows he’s pretty. Not handsome or rugged like his favorite movie stars. He is pretty like Madonna is pretty. But all the girls in his sixth grade class want his attention. Even adults treat him differently, preferentially, if he butters them up with a smarmy smile. 

 

Billy is smart, good at sports, and pretty like a young starlet. Life should be easy for him. He pretends it is. 

 

***

 

Things aren’t going well at the auto shop. Billy’s father upgrades from Miller Lite to Jim Beam. 

 

Billy is twelve the first time he steals a sip of whiskey after his father passes out on the couch. It tastes god awful. Burns all the way down his throat. But then he feels pleasantly warm and fuzzy. 

 

A few more sips, and it’s easy to see why people get lost at the bottom of a bottle. It makes all the loud, sharp things about the world softer. It makes forgetting much easier.

 

Billy has to forget a lot of things. Adjust his memory. His father says that Billy took a tumble down the stairs, and that’s why he’s limping. His father says Billy fell out of a tree and that’s why there’s bruises on his hips and stomach. 

 

It is safer to agree with that version of reality. It means Billy’s memory is faulty and he’s half crazy, always imagining things, but it is easier to be wrong than to be in constant danger at the hands of the man who is supposed to protect him.

 

***

 

Billy drinks and Billy smokes. Billy does cocaine in the boy’s bathroom at his middle school. Billy is wide eyed, on edge, paranoid and anxious that everything is out to get him. 

 

Billy still gets good grades. But he also gets in fights. When some idiot runs their mouth and stumbles into a bear trap, Billy’s always quick on the draw. Quick to give them a sucker punch in the stomach. That’s what happens to people who run their mouths. He should know. 

 

But of course, getting caught is the sin. His dad never gets pissed at him for brawling. Just for doing it on school grounds. Where teachers can see. You don’t do that sort of thing where people can see it. 

 

There’s a hole in the living room wall because his dad was trying to put a picture up and lost his balance. The hole is the same height as Billy’s dislocated shoulder, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

 

A few days after Billy’s screaming in the doctor’s office, getting his joint popped back into place, his dad buys him a brand new bike. All the other kids are jealous when he rides it up to school. If they only knew the price.

 

***

 

Billy’s father uproots them and moves them around at least once a year. Dodging missed rent payments. Bad credit. Bad reputations. Billy doesn’t mind it. Moving constantly means he doesn’t have to worry about keeping up with whatever lies he’s told. Nothing is permanent. Nothing matters. 

 

Billy is always popular. Billy always does well in school, despite the ever rotating curriculums. Billy knows how to tell people what they want to hear, the way they want to hear it, and it carries him through whatever storms arise when he starts getting in fights and doing too many drugs. 

 

Sometimes a well meaning teacher will catch him smoking or smell the whiskey on his breath and try to Take An Interest in him. They tell Billy about how he doesn’t need to be getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, when he shows such promise academically. They talk about scholarships and college and other shit Billy won’t get within spitting distance of. Billy smiles and nods where appropriate, but he always resents the lectures. He doesn’t need anyone’s help. He does just fine. And he absolutely doesn’t wanna talk about why he needs the booze to smooth over inconvenient memories and the cigarettes to keep his hands from shaking. 

 

***

 

At some point, Billy just starts thinking of him as Neil. Maybe around the first time his cheekbone fractures and he has to walk around with an ugly purple bruise for weeks. He’d never say it out loud. Just in his head. Out loud he says  _ sir. Yes sir. No sir. I’m sorry sir.  _

 

It hasn’t been  _ dad _ in a very long time. 

 

Billy is smart. Billy knows that none of his other fourteen-year-old friends have to live like this. They don’t worry about broken bones or sprains or bruises if they aren’t home at six o’clock sharp. They don’t have to cook dinner or do the laundry. They have mothers. They have fathers. Billy doesn’t have either. 

 

He has Neil. An angry, alcoholic roommate that pays the rent and puts food on the table. It makes sense that Billy would contribute by doing all the chores. It is a transactional relationship. If Billy follows the rules, he doesn’t get punished. 

 

The problem is that sometimes rules change without notice. He won’t get the memo that he was supposed to be home at 5:30 instead of 6, or that Neil is tired of spaghetti, or that leaving the hall light on after he goes to sleep is not allowed because he shouldn’t be afraid of the dark like a little bitch. 

 

Billy does his best. He doesn’t argue. He’s learned to stand there in silence. Nod when he’s supposed to. Never cry. Never throw a punch back. 

 

He only tried that once, and he missed a week of school because his face got so badly busted up there was no way to hide it. 

 

It’s Neil’s house. Neil makes the rules. It doesn’t matter if the rules are illogical or contradict each other. Billy has to follow along as best he can, stay out of the way when possible, and drink himself to sleep to avoid bad dreams. 

 

***

 

When Susan first shows up, Billy doesn’t think much of her. He gets a break from doing the dishes when she’s over. She distracts Neil. It’s fine. 

 

There’s been plenty of distractions before her. Debbie. Janet. Eliza. All there one minute, gone the next. All stand ins for an earlier betrayal. Bitches who leave. 

 

But Susan doesn’t leave. She keeps showing up. She moves in, along with her little brat of a daughter, and Neil talks about a wedding.

 

Part of Billy wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Scream at her to get out while she still can. He knows she wouldn’t listen, though. He’s tried to tell some of them before, and they never listen. They report back to Neil, and Billy will have A Tumble Down The Stairs. Interchangeable dumbass women don’t believe what he tries to tell them until they get a black eye or a bruise on their wrist, and go all sullenly quiet. Kicked puppies. Billy feels no pity for them. 

 

Because they all leave eventually and Billy stays. He doesn’t have the luxury of options. 

 

*** 

 

Susan doesn’t take off after the first time Billy hears the inevitable screaming match, followed by a dull thud and quiet sobbing. She still stays after the second and third time. She and Neil get hitched and they all move north to a rundown house in Oakland. 

 

Billy gets his first ever A- and a broken leg in the same week. Susan looks like a scared little deer, all jumpy and nervous on the drive to and from the hospital. Of course Neil doesn’t go with them. Why would he? Billy know the drill. It’s not his first rodeo. He looks the doctor in the eye and says he fell off his bike. Susan knows that Billy‘s bike has been out of commission for weeks, ever since Neil bent the front tire nearly in half because he caught Billy smoking. Maybe that’s why she’s staring at him like he’s a ghost once they’re alone in the hospital room. 

 

Maybe it’s because she saw Neil push Billy down the fucking stairs. It’s funny, how much harder it is to forget things when there’s another witness. 

 

“What?” Billy snaps at her with an agitated growl. 

 

“Nothing!” She responds on a reflex. “I’m sorry… I… I don’t know what I expected you to say.”

 

It hangs heavy in the air. How they’re both trapped now. That ring on her finger means legal and financial entanglement. What other man would want her after two failed marriages and a kid? Billy understands perfectly. 

 

He’s never had anywhere else to go. The extended family wants nothing to do with Neil. Nobody would take Billy in, because he acts exactly like Neil. He’s just as quick to scream and use physical force when provoked. He’s just as mercurial and vicious. He’s only fifteen and drinks as much, if not more, than Neil does. 

 

Foster care wouldn’t be better. He’d rather the evil he knows than to end up in a different house, with a different dickwad hitting him. If it were a stranger, they might even want to fuck him, or pimp him out or something. Nah. Billy’s better off where he is. Soon he’ll be able to get a job. He doesn’t care what. And he’ll save. He’ll be ready to move out the day he turns eighteen. 

 

He doesn’t know what Susan is going to do. She doesn’t seem to have an exit strategy. 

 

Billy leaves the hospital in a cast, with a set of crutches. Everyone wants to sign it at school. It gets him endless attention and special accommodations. 

 

When the cast comes off, Billy is about to turn sixteen and Neil buys him a car. A bright blue camaro that they probably can’t afford, but Neil has always been careless with money. Dollar bills seem to slip through his fingers like water. In weeks or months, maybe it will be Billy’s fault that they can’t make the car payments. By then, maybe they’ll have moved on. There are already plenty of bill collectors trying to find Neil Hargrove. What’s one more?

 

Billy learned how to smile and smooth talk from the very best. Neil’s bad credit never seems to stop them from getting new loans, or apartments, or vehicles. With Susan’s pristine financial record to back up the pretty words, it’s easier than ever. 

 

It’s not all bad. If it were all bad all the time, Billy would have lost it years ago. Life is about ups and downs. No perfect happiness or perfect misery. 

 

Three weeks after he gets his license, he’s driving Susan to the hospital two towns over with her broken nose dripping blood all over the new car’s upholstery. She tells the doctor she ran into a door. In a weird way, Billy’s almost proud of her for being so quick on the uptake. He’s almost sad for her, that she has to live like he does. But still. She chose it. It’s her bed to sleep in. 

 

*** 

 

It’s not difficult to make an educated guess about what would happen to a Faggot under Neil’s roof. Billy would be lucky if he lived to see the ER instead of a pine box. 

 

That thought should probably bother him more than it does. The fact that he legitimately thinks Neil would murder him. But it’s just a fact of life. Neil hates Faggots. He will never know that Billy is one. 

 

It’s not any sort of tortured conclusion. There’s no second guessing, or cursing the heavens, or whining about how life isn’t fair. Billy understands what he is. He understood it the first time his little dick got hard, playing doctor with one of the neighbor boys back in Santa Monica. He understood it when he got on his knees for his swim coach in the eighth grade. He’s understood it many times over, because he’s good at talking people into what he wants them to do. There’s always someone younger and stupider, trying to ride his coattails. There’s always some pretty idiot that’s willing to put a hand down Billy’s pants if it means they have his undivided attention for fifteen minutes. 

 

Sometimes Billy will fuck a girl. It’s not terrible. He does it mostly to keep up appearances. A warm pussy around his cock feels good and tits are nice to squeeze. It’s not what he’d call his primary interest. There’s no fireworks. It usually takes him a while to even get hard.

 

Billy hates his mother, so he kinda hates most women. The psychology of it isn’t that complicated. 

 

He likes dick. He likes it in his hand. In his mouth. Up his ass. He likes to get fucked rough and fast, with thick fingers tangled in his hair, or squeezing around his throat. He likes it to hurt. He wants to feel it for days after the fact. Bruises he chose. Soreness he begged for. There’s no shortage of dirty older men who are happy to indulge him.

 

He’s sixteen and pretty enough that he gets let into bars on a smile. Always gets picked up. Never has to be lonely. Never fucks the same guy twice. 

 

Repeating old scripts with a hope for a different ending. It’s stupid. He can’t help himself. He only understands affection that’s wrapped in barbed wire. But he at least knows not to stick around longer than a night. 

 

***

 

Hawkins is a shithole. Only distinguishable from the other shitholes they’ve lived in by the overgrowth of pine trees. Indiana is awful. It’s cold. It’s claustrophobic. 

 

Billy gets a job at the gas station. Working weekends and afternoons. He lounges behind the register, getting away with doing the absolute minimum. His boss, Ms. Radler, is in her fifties and she believes it when he flirts. He squirrels away most of his paychecks in a hole he made in the upholstery of the Camero’s driver seat. The only place Neil isn’t likely to look. Isn’t likely to borrow with no intention of returning. Billy’s piggy banks have gotten broken open to fund Neil's liquor budget on too many occasions. He knows to hide his money and hide it good. Billy drinks, and he smokes, and he lets the days blur together.  

 

School starts and he’s the Keg King in no time. There’s an obvious power vacuum at the top of the food chain, and he fills it just fine. 

 

The girls in Hawkins are that brand of uptight buttermilk princess that he doesn’t have the patience for. The boys are all scared of deviating from what’s expected of them. But it’s no harder than usual to talk some gangly underclassman onto their knees. Billy isn’t terribly concerned about the hangups of a tiny town in assfuck nowhere. He’s sure they’ll be moving on again soon enough. 

 

_ Don’t worry, sweetheart, nobody else has to know  _ goes far in a place like this. Billy doesn’t get fucked, and he doesn’t manage to convince his various hangers on to give up anything other than a hand or mouth, but that’s fine by him. There’s an upside to closet cases, and it’s that they’re terrified of being found out. Billy doesn’t have to worry about any of the little bastards thinking they’re dating or in love or some shit. After he’s had his fun and tells them to buzz off, they listen. 

 

All and all, life ain’t terrible. He’s just counting down the days till his birthday, when he can make his grand escape. 

 

***

 

King Steve Harrington, former big dick on campus, shows up at the CitGo on a regular basis. It’s one of three gas stations in town. The one closest to Steve’s house. Billy didn’t know those things when he got the gig, but sometimes life throws him a bone. 

 

Steve-o is annoying, sure. But he’s not bad to look at. He’s cute, with that fluffy hair and those big brown doe eyes. Maybe Billy’s jacked it while thinking about what it would be like to fuck the smug look right off that pretty face. That’s his own business. 

 

Billy always acts bored behind the counter. Barely looks up when Steve saunters over to the register. 

 

“Can I get a pack of Camel lights?” Steve asks, on maybe the fourth or fifth visit. After Billy’s been formally introduced at a party. But they haven’t said much else to each other. 

 

Billy snaps his gum and points at the sign. You must have been born in on today’s date in 1966 or later to purchase tobacco products.  “Can I see some ID?”

 

“Aw, come on man. I turn eighteen in a few weeks.” Steve offers a small smile. Probably the sort of smile that gets him everything he wants in life. Billy knows smarmy when he sees it. 

 

“Sorry, Harrington.” Billy raises an eyebrow. “I don’t make the rules.”

 

“You’re kidding. You’ve literally got a cigarette behind your ear.”

 

“And I didn’t sell it to myself,” Billy shrugs. “I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to  _ work  _ for anything. But I don’t feel like risking my job to give you a pack of Camel Lights, Princess.”

 

Steve balks at the nickname. Bluster turned to embarrassment in half a heartbeat. 

 

There’s even a pink flush rising up his neck when Billy winks at him and says, “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t spread the word you smoke bitch cigarettes.”

 

“Gee, thanks.” Steve huffs. Shoving a crumpled up twenty at Billy to pay for his gas. 

 

Billy takes his sweet time ringing it up and counting out the change. 

 

“Thanks for visiting CitGo. You have a great day now.” He grins as Steve ducks out the door. 

 

***

 

Max starts hanging around a black kid, and Billy tells her it’s a problem because he knows Neil will think it’s a problem. Neil doesn’t usually take it upon himself to correct Max’s behavior, probably because he knows that’s the only thing he could ever do that might turn Susan into a bitch that leaves. But if he saw little Maxine associating with “nigger trash” well. His temper might get the best of him. 

 

Neil doesn’t like Blacks, the same way he doesn’t like Fags or Spics or Chinks. Perhaps hating these various groups of people makes Neil feel better about his position as a mediocre white man who drinks too much and never amounted to anything. Billy has no strong feelings about skin color. He has a blanket dislike for people in general.

 

He also knows what young boys are like. Max isn’t his sister, but he still doesn’t appreciate the idea of some little bastard’s hands down her pants. She’s not old enough for that shit. 

 

He tells Max to stop hanging around that fucking Sinclair kid and figures that should be the end of it. 

 

Of course, it’s not. 

 

***

 

To be fair, Billy didn’t throw the first punch. 

 

He might shove Harrington to the ground, but it’s only because Harrington is standing in the way, lying to his goddamn face. Billy’s got bigger fish to fry. He’s gotta get Max home before all hell breaks loose and he ends up in a cast. Because if Neil finds out that his darling angel has been missing all day, associating with A Black Kid. Well. 

 

Really, when Billy picks that rat bastard up and shoves him against a china cabinet, he’s just trying to make things crystal clear. He’s doing the little snot a favor. Because if it were Neil knocking at the door instead of Billy, there’d be no warning shot. He’d hang this kid from the nearest tree and maybe light his corpse on fire for good measure. His stupid friends would all try to save him, and they’d get casts and bruises and concussions of their own. Then Neil and Billy and Max and Susan would have to rush to pack up and skip town before anyone got wind of what happened. Billy has a decent job. He likes some of his teachers. He’s got money saved up. He doesn’t want to start over in a new place just yet. 

 

He’s not expecting Sinclair to kick him in the balls. Just like he’s not expecting Harrington to slug him in the face. And well, the thing is, Billy has a certain reaction to getting clocked out of the blue. It’s manic rage. Everything goes white and shades of black. He’s not sure exactly where, or when he is. All he knows is he’s gonna  _ hurt somebody.  _ Anybody who gets within reaching distance. 

 

He’s pretty sure he’s winning before little Maxine stabs him with a syringe full of god knows what and it’s nighty night for old Billy. 

 

He wakes up several hours later, with no sign of his brat step sister, or Harrington, or any of the little monsters who’ve just ensured the remainder of his night will be hell on earth.

 

***

 

Billy shows up at school Monday limping. His nose is broken. The bruises under both his eyes would have told him that much without the trip to the hospital. He doesn’t miss the way Harrington stares at him. He can almost see the gears turning. 

 

_ Did I do that? _

 

On a normal week, Billy goes slightly out of his way to hassle Queen Stevie. It’s fun. It’s funny. It’s an  _ outlet _ because he’s not gonna get to do any of the other shit he thinks about doing in the privacy of his own bed. That day, Billy avoids him. He even looks bad enough to get out of gym class and basketball practice. Coach gives him one of those Concerned Adult looks, which means a whole bunch of pity but no real action. Billy understands how the world works. Nobody is going to swoop in and save him. That only happens in books and movies. In real life, nobody wants to save you from your legal guardians. Because then they’d be responsible for you. 

 

People especially don’t want to save someone like Billy. Someone who’s angry. Someone who resents sympathy. He’s not some starving orphan. He’s not the picturesque, helpless battered wife with no hope of fighting back. He’s a nearly grown man, that can do real damage if he lashes out. He’s an imperfect victim, that causes plenty of trouble in his own right, and shades of grey are always uncomfortable for society at large to contemplate. 

 

Sometimes, he figures, the world would be better off if he just up and beefed it. Not a death wish exactly. It’s suicidal intention without the follow through. Too tired to keep living. Too tired to do anything about it. 

 

Billy says he got in a bar fight when Tommy and all the other goons want to know what happened. Maybe they believe him. He doesn’t really care. 

 

***

 

Steve shows up at the CitGo after about a week of Billy ducking him. Steve’s face is starting to look a little better. Billy still looks like he had a date with a baseball bat that went badly for everyone involved. 

 

He doesn’t look up. Pretends he’s doing homework. Steve doesn’t say anything right away. They are the only ones in the store. 

 

“I came to apologize.” The words are hesitant. 

 

Billy must have misheard. 

 

But when he finally deigns to raise his head, Steve is still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched. Profoundly uncomfortable. 

 

“What the fuck for?” Billy snorts before thinking about it. 

 

“Your… um…” Steve waves his hand in the general direction of Billy’s face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you that badly. I just—there was stuff going on. Really big, scary stuff, and I heard you yelling at Lucas and I just lost it.”

 

“Relax.” Billy raises his eyebrow, even though it makes the scab on his temple twinge. “You can’t hit hard enough to do all this, Harrington.”

 

The obvious question,  _ then who did? _ lingers in the long beat of silence. Just like,  _ what sort of big scary stuff did you involve Max in?  _ But Steve doesn’t walk away. He takes a step closer. 

 

“I still punched you. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have escalated.”

 

“I tend to bring that out in people.” Billy taps his pen on the counter. Can’t stop fidgeting. “Far as I’m concerned, I won that fight since my kid sister had to step in and save your ass. So I consider us square. I’m not coming after you or something if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

Steve’s eye twitches. Like he wants to argue. If he does, Billy probably couldn’t pin down specifics. It’s pretty much a blank spot except for the beginning and end. No memories. His brain doesn’t catalogue things after someone takes a swing at him.

 

But he knows Steve Harrington is a bitch and a pussy and there are no circumstances under which he would win in a fight. Not against Billy. 

 

“Did you need to buy gas? Or are we done here?” 

 

“I…” Steve swallows hard. “I guess we’re done.”

 

Huh. Interesting. Billy watches Steve walk all the way to the door, in a real tight pair of jeans. Fuck. For such a skinny bastard, he has a nice ass. 

 

Maybe Steve catches Billy staring when he turns to look over his shoulder. It doesn’t show in his expression either way. 

 

“You going to Tommy’s party next Friday?”

 

“I might grace the fans with an appearance.” Billy wants to say,  _ what the fuck does it matter to you? _ Almost as much as he wants to say,  _ I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock sharp, wear something slutty.  _

 

“Yeah. Um… maybe I’ll see you there.”

 

“Shit, Harrington. If I knew all it took to make you friendly was a bloody nose, I’d have dragged you into a fight a long time ago.” It’s a joke. But still confusing. Legitimately confusing. Does Steve know something Billy doesn’t? What’s his angle?

 

Steve sighs like a tired schoolteacher and walks out the door. Billy isn’t quite sure what happened. Or rather, he knows what it looks like, and that can’t be right. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

 

Pity? Guilt? Overtures of friendship? Could be any of the above. Well. That’s quite the development. Billy doesn’t plan to touch it with a ten foot pole. He’s not exactly Afraid of Max, but he also doesn’t really want to find out what she’d try to pull if she got wind he was getting too ‘friendly’ with Harrington. She wouldn’t trust his intentions, and she’d be right not to. He doubts she’d be able to get the drop on him twice, but he also doesn’t really want to have to beat up a tiny girl. He’d feel bad about it. 

 

Best to just not kick the hornet’s nest. 

 

***

 

Billy has to go to Tommy’s party. He’s got a reputation to uphold, and Tommy would be a little bitch if he didn’t show up for at least a while. It’s not a great party. Way too many people. Not enough booze. Billy brought his own. But he’s still not drunk. Just buzzed off what he could fit in his flask. 

 

The music is loud. Top billboard pop hits. So many teenagers crammed into a confined space means an inescapable humidity. The walls might as well be sweating. Billy’s face has healed enough that it’s no longer scaring off the dumb freshmen girls that always flock to him at shindigs like this. He’s still bruised and there's a fresh pink scar on his temple where wedding ring broke skin. It makes him look tough and dangerous instead of like a trauma ward patient. 

 

Things don’t get better as it gets later. Billy is contemplating leaving by ten. It’s not like he’s really talking to anybody. He’s not having a good time. He keeps stepping outside to chainsmoke and just feel like he can goddamn breathe without getting claustrophobic.

 

He’s seriously about to head out after he takes a piss. Except when he opens the door to exit the bathroom, there’s a very drunk Steve Harrington standing directly in front of him. With the element of surprise, said drunk Steve Harrington manages to push him back into the bathroom and kick the door shut.

 

Billy isn’t sure if Steve’s plastered enough to try to fight him. That whole weird gas station interaction seemed like an olive branch. Billy’s used to fake outs. He’s tense. A coiled spring, ready to react. 

 

There’s no playbook for an appropriate reaction when Steve grabs the lapels of Billy’s leather jacket and hauls him into a sloppy kiss. Or rather, instinct kicks in, and Billy’s kissing back before rational thought can stop him. The alcohol thrumming through his system delays the freak out further. Steve’s lips are soft. His mouth is wide and he uses way too much tongue. Billy grabs him by the hair to hold him in place to rein things back. Steve chases. And that’s better. Billy teasing, just barely there brushes of lips, little flicks of tongue, with Steve groaning and panting, desperate for more. 

 

It’s probably a full goddamn minute before Billy has the sense to break away and say, “what the actual fuck, Harrington?”

 

“No talking. Just.” Steve kisses him again. Hands already scrabbling at the zipper of Billy’s jeans. Pawing at his dick, which has taken a rapid interest in the proceedings. He’s half hard and Steve seems to want to touch him. It’s a compelling argument. 

 

There are a lot of unanswered questions. Like why Steve thinks he can do this. Why doesn’t he seem to be scared of getting his teeth knocked out? Why, after pining over Wheeler for weeks, would he suddenly decide he wanted to switch teams? Why Billy and not some other idiot who’d be happy to jack King Steve off if he asked nicely?

 

Stopping to actually voice any of those concerns seems an awful lot like looking a gift horse in the mouth. Steve’s here. He’s willing. He’s warm, and needy, and he smells like crisply ironed fabric with a faint citrus undertone. Steve is expensive. A luxury product. Billy wants to indulge. 

 

He’s jarred from his thoughts by a banging on the bathroom door. Yeah. This isn’t an ideal spot. There’s also no way to exit and not look shady. Good thing the bathroom is on the first floor. Billy goes for the window, lifting it up and climbing halfway out before turning back to a stunned Steve. 

 

“Wait a second, go out the door. Meet me at my car. I’m parked two blocks away on Halfax. Got all that, sweetheart?”

 

“Y-yeah… Halfax. I’ll um… see you in a minute.”

 

Billy winks. Then he’s out into the bushes. Circumventing the party and any prying eyes. It’s a relief to be outside, in the chilly autumn air. He lights a cigarette as he strolls across the front lawn. 

 

Part of him expects that Steve won’t show. He’s glad to have an excuse to leave either way. He doesn’t look over his shoulder as he walks down the street to his car. He gets inside and turns on the radio. Nothing good on. So he turns it back off. 

 

How long can he sit here before he feels like an idiot? Five minutes? Ten? There’s a cold, snarky voice in the back of his head, telling him it was some sort of joke. Steve doing it just to prove he could. Just to laugh later about how Billy kissed him back. Like a faggot. Billy is a faggot. But Steve wouldn’t know that. 

 

He jumps when the passenger door swings open. Steve slumps down into the seat. The door shuts with a thud and then they sit there, in utter silence. 

 

Well. 

 

Billy turns the key and revs the engine. They speed down the dark road, away from people, away from all the noise and light. Steve doesn’t say anything. He just lets Billy drive them off the asphalt onto dirt, where the pines are thick and nobody will be looking for them. 

 

They park in some nondescript, shadowy corner of the world. Surrounded by the oppressive silence of backwoods and trees that soak up any noise that tries to pass.

 

Sometimes, Billy contemplates dragging Neil to a place like this. After he’s passed out drunk, or maybe after Billy’s punched him into a blackout. He thinks about digging a very deep hole. The sort of hole nobody would be able to climb out of. He thinks about heaping six feet of dirt on Neil’s unconscious body and sitting there, chain smoking, as the bastard slowly suffocates. He hopes Neil would wake up in time to recognize his fate. He wishes Neil would understand exactly who did it to him and exactly why. But he knows Neil wouldn’t get it. Everybody’s the hero of their own story. Nobody wakes up thinking they’re someone else’s monster. 

 

Steve reaches out. Placing a hand on Billy’s thigh. It reels him back to the moment. They’re in his car, in the middle of nowhere. This is his comfort zone. He’s long since memorized the script. He knows exactly what to do. 

 

He’s still surprised at how fast it happens—climbing over into Steve’s lap, straddling him, kissing him. He gets his fingers back in that fluffy brown hair and pulls. Steve moans into his mouth. Grabs his ass. All hesitation evaporates. The kisses are messy smears, heavy breathing, bitten lips and bone-rocking chemistry. Billy feels like a livewire. More fucked up than he’s been all night. More fucked up than he’s been since they moved to this stupid town. High on being touched. Being devoured. 

 

There’s a difference between fucking someone because you wanna get off and fucking someone because lust overpowers you. There’s a magnet at the pit of Billy’s stomach, drawing him in, ever closer. He’s felt it before with Harrington. The pull. His inability to stay away entirely. Always teasing, and prodding, trying to get a reaction. Experiencing it this close is like driving down a steep hill with cut brakes. Total loss of control. They’re in freefall. 

 

He doesn’t care that it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t care why it’s happening. All he knows is that they need to keep touching each other or he’s gonna die. 

 

It’s easy, to unbutton Steve’s jeans and pull his cock out. It’s easy to trace a thumb over the sticky head of it, just to taste the whimper. Steve shudders. Fumbles with Billy’s zipper. In the fog of urgent hormones, it’s easy to laugh, low and dark. 

 

“Jesus, you’re trashed, Harrington.”

 

Billy knocks Steve’s clumsy fingers out of the way. Unzips his own pants. Then it two hard, naked cocks, rutting against each other with a little spit slick to ease the way. This is what  _ life  _ feels like. Raw nerve endings buzzing with sensation. The dizzy, can’t breathe, slide of soft skin. 

 

Men say a lot of things to Billy when he’s in their lap. They call him pretty. They call him a slut. They call him young, and sweet, and dirty. They ask him if he likes how Daddy’s cock feels in his tight little ass. Everyone’s got a complex one way or another. Billy won’t begrudge anyone their fantasy fulfillment. 

 

Steve doesn’t say any of that. Instead, in a ragged, breathy grunt, he says, “I wanna fuck you. God. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

 

_ Can’t stop thinking about it _ implies a level of premeditation that Billy hadn’t dared to consider. He’s fucked plenty of ‘straight’ guys before. They don’t admit to planning shit. 

 

“That so?” Billy finds his voice sounds halfway wrecked. “King Steve wants to fuck me in the ass like some kinda faggot? What makes you think I’d let you?”

 

“Would you?” Steve dips his fingers under the waistband of Billy’s jeans. Slides his hands down to grab Billy’s bare ass. It sends little zings of electricity up his spine. His dick twitches. He presses closer, wraps his hand around both of them, starts to rock into Steve with intention. 

 

“I don’t think you’d know what to do with me. And if it’s bad, I won’t fake it to save your precious ego.” 

 

“Bet I’d prove you wrong.” Steve’s hands slide lower. Bolder than Billy would expect. There’s a finger slipping between his ass cheeks, brushing lightly against his hole. 

 

Billy can’t help the little moan. The way his hips stutter. The idea is tempting. It’s been a while since he’s had any good dick. Too long. King Steve at least lives up to his reputation in the size department. He’s big, but not so big it’s intimidating. He’s thick, and there’s a nice curve to his cock that looks like it would hit the right place, and if he’s offering…

 

“Small town boys still get up to no good every once in a while.” Steve presses, ever so lightly, the tip of his finger slides in for just a second before it’s withdrawn. 

 

Fuck it. 

 

Billy kicks off his boots and wriggles free of his skintight jeans. He keeps a jar of vaseline in the glove compartment. He grabs it. Unscrews the lid and offers it out. 

 

“OK, Harrington. Let’s see what you got.”

 

There’s barely a pause before Steve’s slick fingers are between Billy’s legs. Pressing up. One slides in easy. Even if it punches a gasp out of Billy’s lungs. He tightens his grip in Steve’s hair. It must hurt. But then they’re kissing again. And it’s a fever spreading across Billy’s skin, welling in his chest with every harsh breath, spreading back and forth between the two of them in sweat and saliva. It’s cold outside. The windows are already fogging up. Blanketing them in a surreal pocket where time doesn’t exist. There’s only touch. The smell of denim and leather and sticky petroleum jelly. The taste of cheap beer, cigarettes, something a little sweet and minty struggling and failing to cover up the other flavors. Gum? Tic-tacs? Did Harrington actually chew on something before getting in Billy’s car? That’s fucking adorable. 

 

Two fingers, pressed just right, Billy wants to bite something so he does. His teeth sink into the side of Steve’s neck, almost muffling a moan. 

 

Steve does seem to have some idea what he’s doing. Shocking as that is. He’s worked up to three fingers without Billy noticing, except that he wants  _ more _ . Maybe that’s just a comment on what a goddamn whore Billy is. Maybe Steve has actually done this before. Either way, the result is the same. Skin-crawling desperation. Tension about to implode if it’s not addressed. 

 

Billy takes the liberty of smearing some of the vaseline onto Steve’s cock and then it’s showtime. He sinks down in one smooth motion. Bottoms out. Steve gripping his hips tight enough to leave a mark. 

 

“Holy fuck,” Steve breathes. 

 

“Nothing holy about it, Princess.”

 

Billy braces himself on the seat, grabbing the back of it for leverage, and then he’s the star of the rodeo. Bouncing on a dick like he was made for it. Fast and rough, the way he needs it to be. There’s no sensation comparable to a thick, hard cock, dragging against that spot inside him that makes his thighs tremble. Makes him so tense he can hardly breathe. It’s some dirty, inbred cousin of pleasure. Bliss at the edge of a rusty knife. Billy loves being so full it burns. It means he’s real and someone wants him. Sex has value. People pay for it. People steal it. If Billy’s getting fucked, he‘s worth something. At least for a few minutes. 

 

Steve wraps his hand around Billy’s cock. Strokes it slowly. Coaxing out a drool of sticky excitement. It’s already too much. Billy’s too keyed up. He can feel that writhing heat at the base of his spine, curling in itself, growing exponentially, soon there will be nowhere for it to go. 

 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve says. Voice pure sandpaper. Breath warm on Billy’s lips. 

 

Billy wants to tell him to fuck off. Instead he whines high and loud and he’s splattering jizz all over Harrington’s silk button down shirt. That must set Steve off as well. Billy kinda blanks out for a minute. But when he comes back, he’s still sitting in Steve’s lap, and they’re both panting, still twitching a little with the aftershocks. 

 

Billy lifts up enough that Steve’s cock slides out. He can feel the mixture of come and vaseline threatening to leak everywhere. He grabs some tissues from the glove compartment. Wipes himself up as best he can. Wipes Harrington’s dick off too. It’s over sensitive, and it makes the bastard yelp and squirm a little. 

 

“Hm… I’ll give that a B+ I guess. Not awful. Room for improvement.” Billy grins as he cracks the door open to toss the soiled tissues. He doesn’t feel like moving out of Steve’s space just yet. So he lights a cigarette, still sitting on top of Steve’s skinny thighs. 

 

“Room for improvement?” Steve snorts. “You came so fucking fast, dude.”

 

“So did you.” He blows smoke in Steve’s face. “You’re lucky I didn’t have more to drink.”

 

Steve steals the cigarette. Billy lets him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Ill Repute song. Next chapter next week? Sure let's see.


	2. Suburban Home

Nothing is different. Billy operates in the same fog of boredom as usual. He gives everyone a hard time. Harrington isn’t special. 

 

Except now when Billy shoulder-checks him, Steve doesn’t look affronted. If anything, he looks amused. The nicknames, _ Princess, Queen Stevie, Sweetheart, Pretty Boy _ , don’t seem to unbalance him anymore. When Billy knocks Steve onto his ass during basketball practice, Steve looks up at him with a  _ knowing smirk _ that makes Billy’s teeth itch. 

 

He doesn’t usually give repeat performances. What’s the point in fucking the same person twice? His interest sputters out after he gets a taste. Getting to know somebody has never increased his opinion of them. The more time he spends around a given person, the more they grate on him.

 

Except.

 

The pull is still there. Nagging at him. Tickling the edges of his brain. He thinks about how good Steve looks with his hair messed up, mouth half open, eyes wide. He thinks about how good Steve felt. He thinks about this has the potential to go terribly wrong for him. He has to stay the fuck away. 

 

Knowing what’s good for you and acting on it are two very different things. 

 

***

 

Max is yelling through Billy’s door about a phone call. She won’t say who it’s from, which can’t be a good sign. It’s a rare Sunday that Billy isn’t working. 

 

He drags himself out of bed to the kitchen phone downstairs. Susan is cooking breakfast, humming to herself. Max’s eyes are wide and she looks a little pastier than usual. 

 

“Hello?” Billy curls the wire around his finger, trying to ignore the twisting in his stomach. 

 

“Um… hi. It’s me. Steve.”

 

“OK.”

 

Long silence. Racing thoughts.  _ How did you get my number? Why the fuck are you calling me? You haven’t talked to me since your dick was inside me. You’ve even been avoiding my gas station, you fucker.  _

 

“Are you working today?” 

 

“Obviously not.” Billy pulls the cord tighter, making the tip of his finger go white. He has to keep his tone level and polite. He doesn’t want to answer questions about who he was screaming at. He doesn’t want Max to know what’s up. She’s probably confused and angry enough at the fact Harrington is calling and asking for him.

 

“Do you want to go swimming?”

 

Harrington has a heated pool. It’s common knowledge. Doesn’t change the fact it’s late November and there’s snow on the fucking ground. 

 

There’s also no good reason for him to be inviting Billy over. They aren’t friends. In fact, most people would probably categorize them as bitter enemies. Still. Bolder move than Billy would expect. Steve calling him at his goddamn house. Guy’s full of surprises. 

 

“Yeah, right. It’s only, what, twenty degrees outside?” Billy snorts. 

 

“We could also just hang out or something.”

 

“That’s not what you’re after. I can read between the lines.”

 

Another pause. Max is still staring at him. Bill sneers at her, mouthing ‘fuck off’ and she finally gets the memo to make herself scarce. 

 

“Oh.” Steve says. Anticlimactic much?

 

“Ask what you really want to know.”

 

“My parents are gone. Do you… do you wanna come over and fool around?”

 

“Sure. I’ll stop by in a bit.”

 

Billy hangs up. God is merciful and Susan doesn’t inquire about who called. He sits there and eats the overcooked eggs she made, and they don’t talk to each other. Neil must still be sleeping off a hangover. He doesn’t make an appearance. Billy is able to shower, fix his hair, and slip out of the house unnoticed. 

 

He doesn’t drive to Harrington’s right away. He stops by the Citgo and sweet talks Ms. Radler into selling him a bottle off the bottom shelf. He gets a pack of Marlboro 100’s, and a pack of Camel Lights. He tells himself it’s a joke. 

 

Harrington lives in a nice house. In a nice neighborhood. It’s sprawling, and fancy, and it oozes tasteful affluence. Billy leans on the doorbell and doesn’t wipe his feet when Steve lets him in. He likes dirtying up things that are out of his reach. That’s all this whole venture is. 

 

The kitchen, with marble counters, and pans hanging from a rack on the ceiling, is in direct view from the front hall. Billy walks into it, grabs two crystal glasses from the polished wood cabinets and he pours a few fingers of cheap whiskey in each. Steve’s standing in the doorway. Hands in his pockets again. Curled in on himself like he wants to be shorter. Nervous. 

 

Billy smirks at him and downs both glasses in quick succession. He refills them and gestures to Steve.

 

“Your turn, sweetheart.” He bites the corner of his lip and wags his eyebrows. Playing the caricature of a bad boy that Steve probably wants him to be.

 

Steve doesn’t say anything. But he does take a glass and sip it. His nose wrinkles with distaste.  _ Cute. _

 

“You can put some ice cubes in it, if you wanna be a bitch.” Billy tosses him the pack of Camels. “It’d be a matching set.”

 

Steve catches the cigarettes on reflex. Looks at them. Then up at Billy. There’s a beat where Billy wonders if the joke wasn’t funny after all. Then Steve’s crowding forward into his space, pressing him against the kitchen island, licking into his mouth. He tastes like the burn of alcohol, followed by coffee, then just warmth. 

 

Billy wonders how many times it was Wheeler standing where he is now. In a pristine kitchen, in an empty house. He wonders how many times it’s been someone else. Unnamed faceless boy that was Harrington’s previous experiment? Tommy? He doesn’t really like that idea. But Tommy also gets very handsy when they’re drunk and it’s just the two of them. So it’s not out of the question.

 

Doesn’t matter anyway. He’s here now. 

 

Billy ends up bent over the kitchen island. Cold marble pressing against his stomach, and Steve’s body heat blanketing his back. He’s slicked up with olive oil, because of course Steve Harrington doesn’t have lube. It burns just enough to make Billy’s breath catch.

 

He didn’t really give Steve the chance to fuck him last time. Didn’t give up the control of pace or depth. Now he’s trapped, hands clutching the edge of the counter, feet barely touching the floor. Steve is taller. Can keep him off balance. Can hunch over him, and wrap his hands around Billy’s wrists, and pound into him like a goddamn animal.

 

Every thrust brings him to the edge of  _ toomuchnotenoughmoremoremore _ . He’s not quiet. He’s moaning like a bitch in heat. Trembling with the violent force of their bodies slapping together. Steve doesn’t always get the angle just right. But when he does, Billy’s cock dribbles. Probably making a sticky puddle on the hardwood floor.

 

Steve kisses his shoulder. Groans. “Shit, Billy. You feel so fucking good.”

 

It’s an odd tenderness in contrast to the brutal carnality. It’s odd to be called Billy instead of Hargrove. 

 

Steve comes with a rough grunt, nails digging into Billy’s wrists in a way that should feel claustrophobic but just feels good. Maybe the weirdest thing that happens is when Steve pulls out, flips Billy around, and sinks to his knees. He takes Billy’s cock down his throat like a seasoned hooker. It’s such a shock that Billy comes almost immediately. Shuddering, can’t breathe, overwhelming crash of heat, and tension, and sweet release. 

 

“Damn, Harrington. You’ve got quite a mouth on you, huh?” Billy tries for condescending. Reaching out to run his thumb along Steve’s plump lower lip. Steve stands up. Licks Billy’s finger and grins. 

 

“Careful. That sounded awful close to a compliment.” 

 

Billy pours them both another round of whiskey. Since Steve’s not telling him to leave, he doesn’t. He drinks, and he smokes, and he lounges on expensive furniture in his underwear. He’s sweaty and tacky with bodily fluids. Steve is all over him. Pressed up against him. On top of him. Kissing and touching and grabbing like he’s afraid Billy will disappear if he lets go for more than a second. 

 

They fuck again, Billy on his back, sprawled across a bearskin rug by a huge crackling fireplace. He feels like a playboy centerfold. Naked with soft fur against his skin. Steve kissing him and rocking into him in a way that’s almost gentle. It’s much slower the second time around. It makes Billy’s chest hurt. Feels like he’s drowning. That magnetic attraction that keeps yanking him back into Steve’s orbit seems to have kicked into overdrive. He’s all hot coals and exposed nerves. Stuck between overstimulation and an unquenchable thirst for this new drug he’s discovered. A high he can only get when they’re touching. 

 

His brain is white noise. For the first time, in a very long time, he’s not thinking about anything besides how full he is, and how good it feels. How  _ safe _ he feels. That tense part of his mind usually devoted to being Alert and Ready To React has gone slack. 

 

Later, he will probably look back in horror. Because he’s not supposed to ever let his guard down that way. In the moment, it’s just too much of an intense relief. Rest for a muscle that’s been pulling overtime his whole life. He has to wallow in it. 

 

Billy’s so out of it, he barely notices he’s about to come. It just kind of happens. Body clenching and throbbing and he’s drowning. Steve comes right on his heels. Adding to the sticky mess already inside him.

 

Soft kisses and gentle words in the afterglow. Billy isn’t really paying much attention. He’s just soaking it in. The euphoric buzzing in his nerve endings that makes his flesh feel pleasantly tight. Oxytocin. Dopamine. The chemical cocktail that makes people do and say really stupid shit, but keeps the species going. 

 

“My house is empty a lot,” Steve is saying, lying next to Billy on the rug, smoking one of his stupid Camel Lights. 

 

“So?” Billy sounds drunk. Feels like he just did a fat line of coke and chased it with some ecstasy. 

 

“You could come over again. If you want to… I’d like you to.”

 

“I’ll take that under consideration.” Billy lights a cig of his own. “Don’t call my house. You can call the gas station, or find me at school, but you never call my house again. Got it?”

 

“Yeah. I got it.”  He probably doesn’t really understand what’s at stake. But that’s OK. It’s better that way.

 

“A-.” Billy exhales a string of smoke rings. Maybe smiling a little bit.

 

“Bumping my grade up?” Steve rolls closer to him. Also smiling. Really big and stupid. 

 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Harrington. There’s still room for improvement.” 

 

“I’ll take that as a challenge.”

 

***

 

Billy doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do attachment. He doesn’t want things. Because when he wants things, specific things, that opens up the opportunity for loss. He’s always having to say goodbye. Sooner or later, he’ll have to leave Hawkins. Uprooted once again. He’ll be in a new town, in a new state, far away from anything resembling stability. And if Neil doesn’t move them. Well. Billy plans to run. The day he graduates, he’s gonna drop off the grid like a sack of bricks. Clean break. When that happens, he will never talk to anyone from his old life again. 

 

There’s no point in pursuing whatever weird feeling Harrington happens to inspire in his chest. The heart fluttering, stomach dropping, floating giddiness has to be a trap. Billy does not care about anyone other than himself. He never has and he never will. That’s the only way he survives. 

 

But in direct conflict to his own self-interest and prolonged wellbeing, Billy keeps going to Harrington’s house. He parks the Camaro a mile away and walks, because he’s not completely stupid. He’s still there more often than he should be. 

 

He goes because he likes getting fucked on fluffy beds, clutching at soft sheets, leaving stains on down comforters. He likes making out naked on a couch that cost more than his car. He likes getting off in a heated pool and watching his jizz dissipate into the water. He likes blasting The Descendants on the fancy living room speakers, and getting Steve drunk enough to headbang along with him. Billy sings off-key, appreciating the irony.   _ I wanna be a clone, I want a suburban home.  _

 

He likes fooling around with Steve. Ruining something that’s too good for him. Boys like King Steve Harrington grow up to work in banks. They get hitched, and buy houses, and have children they never spend time with. Boys like Billy are lucky if they don’t end up sucking dick for cash and dying of AIDS. He knows there’s nothing permanent about their situation. But years down the road, when Steve’s unhappily married and painfully bored, Billy hopes to be a fond memory. He hopes Steve will think about him, and how tight his ass was, how soft and hot his mouth felt, as he fucks some snobby ex buttermilk princess like it’s a chore. 

 

***

 

At first, it seems that Neil will let the absences slide as long as Max is home on time, and there’s a fresh case of beer in the fridge. But then, on a Saturday when Billy is halfway out the door, he gets pulled back inside by his jacket collar. Neil starts asking where Billy is going. Why Billy isn’t coming home for dinner? Did his shift change at the Citgo? Does he need to call Ms. Radler and have a discussion about how important Family Dinner is? 

 

Family Dinner hasn’t been a topic of discussion for years, but that doesn’t matter. Billy apologizes unconvincingly, there’s a blank spot, and he’s wheezing, curled into a ball on the floor with fresh purple marks around his neck. 

 

Of course, Billy does not make it to the Harrington residence that day. Or the next day, because Neil takes his keys. Billy’s door doesn’t lock. Neil checks on him to make sure he’s still there no less than six times.

 

Monday rolls around. Steve is pissed. Because Billy didn’t come by, and he hasn’t been at the Citgo. He had to call off because Neil wouldn’t give him his keys back or let him out of the house until it was time to take Max to school. 

 

There’s a purple and green necklace resting low on Billy’s throat, which he doesn’t bother to cover up, because he’s an asshole who gets in fights constantly, and nobody fucking cares where his bruises are coming from. Or at least, nobody did. Steve corners him in the bathroom during lunch and goes from pissed off bitch to concerned mother hen in half a heartbeat.

 

“What happened?” He cups Billy’s jaw and gingerly traces his fingers over the bruises. Those stupid doe eyes are wide with an emotion that seems an awful lot like panic.

 

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Billy knocks his hands away. It doesn’t work. Steve’s right back on him. Checking for other injuries. 

 

“Is this why you didn’t come over? Did you get in a fight?”

 

“I said, _ don’t worry _ , Harrington. It’s not your problem.”

 

“But–you–you’re seriously just going to stand me up, waltz into school looking like you got mauled, and then not give me some sort of explanation?”

 

Billy’s jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching it. His fingers flex, forming a fist out of habit. These are shark infested waters. He has to stay focused. He doesn’t want everything to go grayscale. He doesn’t want to be angry. He’s not angry. Not at Steve. 

 

“I got into it with some douchebag at a bar Friday night. Neil took my keys.” It’s part of the truth. Billy was working late on Friday, and Steve probably knows that. Because Steve memorizes his goddamn schedule. But he desperately hopes its enough. 

 

“Neil is… your dad?” Steve asks, careful. Petting Billy’s hair. Still clutching at him, but avoiding the bruises. 

 

“Neil is Neil. No more questions.”

 

“OK… OK. No more questions.” Steve presses a soft kiss against Billy’s forehead, but then backs up. Giving Billy space to breathe. After a minute, it’s easier. And Billy closes the distance on his own. He lets Steve hold him for just a few seconds. Leaning against the wall in the handicap stall. 

 

At least Steve has enough sense to understand that Billy is a wounded animal, ready to bite if threatened. Billy is terrified of the day that Steve doesn’t back away when he growls. He doesn’t want to be like Neil, even if it seems inevitable and written in the stars. Doesn’t matter that he and Steve have made each other bleed. That was before. When they weren’t anything but casual enemies. He doesn’t want to pour his rage over someone who he’s fucking. Someone who inexplicably trusts him enough to fall asleep next to him. 

 

The bathroom door creaks on its hinges. They break apart. Wait for the other set of feet to enter a stall before they exit. 

 

***

 

It’s probably a bad call, hanging out at some basement party with both Tommy and Steve. But it’s a Friday night, and Billy’s high on Ludes, and everything is fuzzy at the edges. He’s sitting on a couch sandwiched between the two of them. Carol is in Tommy’s lap, giggling and slutty. Steve has that sleepy smile on his face. Billy wants to kiss him, but settles for pressing their thighs together. It’s cramped enough on the couch, he doesn’t need an excuse. 

 

“Been awhile since we’ve seen you around, Harrington.” Tommy drawls, also high as fuck. He was the one that had the pills. “You finally untwist your panties and forget about the Wheeler bitch?”

 

“Don’t call her a bitch.” Steve’s still smiling. “But yeah. I’m definitely over it.”

 

And that makes Billy feel like the couch is a cloud—like he’s finally died, there was a paperwork error, and he got into heaven. 

 

There’s a hand on his thigh. It’s not Steve’s hand. It’s Carol. She’s always trying to drag him into a threesome with Tommy. Or maybe just wants to fuck him on her own. Either way, he’s not interested. 

 

“You still with us, Billy?” She giggles, high pitched and annoying. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He waves his hand like he’s swatting a fly. 

 

“Good. I left my cigarettes in my car. Will you come get them with me? It’s so dark out…” she widens her eyes. Like she’s helpless and afraid of walking half a block by herself. 

 

“Being fine and being able to stand up are two very different things, babe.” 

 

“Steve? Will you come with me?” She bites her lower lip. Not subtle. Billy barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

 

“Yeah, I guess. You shouldn’t be walking around out there alone.”

 

_ What? _

 

Billy isn’t jealous. It’s just preposterous for two people to leave the party to get cigarettes from a car when he has cigarettes in his jacket. He pushes Steve back down when he starts to get up, pulls out his pack and offers it to Carol. 

 

She takes one, looking slightly put out. A free smoke is a free smoke. She can’t complain unless she admits to just wanting to lure someone away from the party so she could get fucked in the back seat of her car. 

 

Later, after most everyone’s passed out, and Billy’s getting fucked in the back seat of Steve’s beamer he says, “what was that thing with the cigarettes?”

 

“What?” Steve pauses, breathless, throbbing deep inside Billy. 

 

“Don’t stop.” Billy groans. 

 

It’s cramped in the back seat. Steve hunched over and awkwardly on his knees. Billy on all fours. 

 

“Then don’t ask me weird questions while we’re in the middle of banging.” Steve snorts, but he starts to move again. Slow. Torturously slow. Billy whines. Steve presses closer against him, kissing his neck. “You mean Carol?”

 

“Yeah. You know she was trying to drag you off to suck your cock or something.”

 

“I was her second choice.” Steve kisses his shoulder. Bites it lightly. “There’s dangerous shit in the woods. Nobody should be walking around alone in the dark.”

 

“Right. Whatever, Harrington. I don’t think a grizzly bear is gonna wander into the middle of suburbia—oh  _ fuck—“ _

 

The abrupt force. Change in angle. Steve is hammering against Billy’s prostate and it’s too much to cope with. He’s still high. Can’t form a coherent thought beyond  _ it feels so good. _

 

“What was that?” Steve laughs. Strained. The slap of their skin speeds up. Ever faster. 

 

Billy comes without a hand on his cock. He comes so hard it’s a full-body shudder and he stops breathing. He doesn’t drift back to earth for quite a while. When he does, he and Steve are sitting up, slumped against each other. Sticky and sweaty. Steve places a cigarette between Billy’s lips and lights it for him. 

 

“It’s kinda cute that you’re jealous.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Billy mumbles. Even he’s not convinced by it. 

 

“There’s no need to worry.” Steve tangles his fingers in Billy’s hair, but doesn’t pull. Just holds on. “I don’t want anybody else. Least of all Carol.”

 

Billy doesn’t have a response for that. He just feels light and relaxed. He stays curled against Steve for a long time. Maybe dozes for a bit. It’s four in the morning when he has to get dressed, drive home, and sneak into his own bedroom window, hoping Neil hasn’t checked on him since 10pm. 

 

***

 

The first time Steve says it, there’s nothing special going on. They’re just sprawled on his bed. Fucked out and drunk. Steve presses close, arms wrapped around Billy’s waist. His voice is rough from the cigarettes and the whiskey. Rough from Billy’s cock pushing into his throat. 

 

“I love you.”

 

“No you don’t.” The response is immediate. Automatic. Billy has been bracing himself for this possibility, hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with it. That was a stupid hope. Steve is a Disney Princess that wants a picket fence and sees the good in people. 

 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the authority on my own feelings. You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know.”

 

“You don’t love me, Harrington. You love fucking me. There’s a difference.”

 

“I know the difference.” Steve rolls on top of him. Kisses him so soft and gentle. It kills that tense urge to  _ run _ far and fast that was starting to tingle in his extremities. 

 

Billy wants to break something. He kind of wants to cry. What he does is lie there and kiss Steve back. 

 

“We’re not dating,” he says, because he needs to. Even if he hates the sound of it. 

 

“OK… so you’re fucking other people?”

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“I haven’t been. Like I told you, I don’t want anyone else.”

 

“We’re not dating.” Billy reaffirms. “I’m not your boyfriend. I don’t do relationships. I won’t do relationships. Ever.”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows. Like Billy is a puppy, trying to bark at a much bigger dog to intimidate it. 

 

“I’m serious, Harrington.”

 

“I know. I believe you.” His eyes ask  _ do you believe yourself, Billy? _

 

But he doesn’t say it out loud, so Billy ignores the question. 

 

***

 

The second time he says it, it’s warm out. The snow has melted. It’s spring. It’s late April, and they have been doing whatever they’re doing for five fucking months. 

 

Steve is getting ready to graduate. He’s been talking about becoming a fucking cop of all things. Says Hopper might be able to get him a job. There’s been a few retirements. They need fresh blood. 

 

Billy knows something weird is up when Steve insists they drive the Beamer instead of the Camaro. He won’t tell Billy where they’re going. Just keeps driving until they’re on the highway. Until they’re miles and miles away from Hawkins. Until they cross the state line into Illinois. 

 

They go to some sleazy looking club in north Chicago. The sort of club Billy used to cruise in California. All men in tight jeans and tight shirts, grinding against each other to crappy disco music. 

 

Steve drags him onto the dance floor after two overpriced, fruity drinks. It’s thrilling to touch in public. To wrap around each other, kiss deep and sloppy, without anyone batting an eye. 

 

“I love you,” Steve says, loud enough to carry over the music. The pounding bass and flashing lights make the scene surreal. They could be different people. Living an entirely different life. Here in a city, where two men sharing an apartment isn’t anything to look twice at. 

 

Billy is terrified by how much he wants that. It’s impractical. It wouldn’t work out. He and Steve can’t just move here and live together and play house like it’s normal. Billy is fucked up. Steve is too, though it’s more subtle. Late night anxious pacing, being afraid of the dark, always looking at the woods like something is about to jump him. Billy doesn’t know what happened, but something Happened to Steve Harrington. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. Billy would be a hypocrite for asking. 

 

You can’t move away from trauma. All the baggage comes with you. As much as he wants to believe they could make it work, he is a pragmatist. High school flings don’t last. Shouldn’t last. People change too much. He doesn’t deserve to be happy. He doesn’t get to have nice things, and pretending otherwise is so dangerous. He’s fucking stupid. He needs to end this. He needs to  _ run _ . 

 

He thinks about all that, and his stomach drops out like he’s at the top of a roller coaster. 

 

“Shut up, Harrington.” They kiss again, deep and dirty. 

 

_ I don’t know what love is, but I might feel it about you too.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of chapter 3 is done. God willing and the creek don't rise, it goes up next week. Your comments give me life. F e e d me, seymour.


	3. Run To The Hills

Steve graduates and he doesn’t get a job at the bank. He gets a job at the police station. He moves out of his parent’s house into a shitty trailer by the quarry. His mattress has rusty springs that squeal something awful at any hint of motion. The couch has one broken leg, and a hole in the cushion covered with duct tape. The kitchen table is a chunk of plywood balanced on milk crates. 

 

Billy loves it. Spends as much of his summer there as Neil will allow. Definitely takes a few extra bruises and bumps just because it means another hour at the trailer. 

 

He feels more at home than he ever has. Because this is what he is. Trailer trash. He doesn’t belong in a fancy house, spread across a bearskin rug. He belongs on a squeaky mattress, with worn sheets. He belongs in a tiny kitchen, with vinyl countertops, making a stir fry to put in the fridge so Steve will eat a vegetable this week. He belongs in the patchy grass on the hill outside, “the yard” he calls it in his head. Their yard is bigger than anyone else’s. The entire stretch of hill and trees and quarry lake. 

 

Steve calls him Suzy Homemaker, and Billy blows smoke in his face, and they eat meals together, and fall asleep together every night that Billy can get away with it. 

 

They fight. Often. They don’t throw punches, the way they both clearly want to. But things get broken. Plates. Bottles. Billy even slugs through one of the flimsy windows and later he has to tape cardboard over it to keep drafts out. 

 

They fight because Steve asks questions. Because Steve is training to be an cop—and he’s recognizing signs he used to miss. They fight because Steve talks about change of custody and legal guardians and asks where Billy’s mother, or his other relatives are, and Billy doesn’t know the answer. 

 

They fight because Steve says  _ I love you _ every goddamn day and Billy doesn’t know how to cope with that. The only other person who’s ever said that to him left. She left him with Neil to live the fucked up life he has. He hates her. He  _ hates her _ . 

 

“Why won’t you let me help you!” Steve shouts across the trailer, about ready to pull his hair out. “If you just made a statement—even if you just didn’t  _ deny it _ —Hop could arrest him.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Harrington. And if you try to make me put something on record that I don’t want on the record, things will be very unpleasant for both of us.” Billy isn’t yelling. His voice is level. Calm. He’s sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. Non-Reaction is the defense mechanism that comes if violence isn’t an option. If he can’t explode in a burst of fire and energy, he just goes blank. 

 

“Why are you like this?” Steve continues. “Do you want it to keep happening? Do you want to keep getting the shit kicked out of you just for daring to exist?”

 

Billy sits there, thinking about how it’s his word against Neil’s. Susan wouldn’t back him up. Nobody is going to believe him. Bruises fade. Broken bones heal. He’s a rowdy teenager that plays sports and could injure himself any variety of ways. 

 

He thinks about how he’s getting closer and closer to graduation. He just has to make it until next spring. It wouldn’t be worth the effort. Not with how little time he has left to endure. 

 

“At least—just—stop going back to his house. I told you that you can keep your stuff here. Why can’t you just…” Steve is crying now. “Please just stay.”

 

Billy can’t live here. He has to go back to the house. Because otherwise Neil comes looking for him. He doesn’t want to know what happens if Neil finds him in Steve’s trailer. It wouldn’t ever be good. Steve has a gun now, and someone might end up dead. There’s no guarantee it would be Neil. Because Neil is big. He’s strong. Harrington is a skinny stick of a man that can’t grow a beard and doesn’t plant his feet. 

 

Billy doesn’t like thinking about Neil ever touching Steve. He’s not going to let it happen. 

 

Steve sits down on the couch next to him. Trying to wipe the tears away. Billy stays quiet. Staring at the wall. He can sympathize. He’s trapped and it sucks. But he’s had a lot of time to get used to the situation. Steve is only just beginning to realize that the only way out is through. 

 

***

 

Broken collar bone. Because Neil checked Billy’s room at midnight, and Billy wasn’t there. Because Neil had four hours to build up a head of steam. Because he caught Billy climbing through the window. It’s not a bone Billy’s cracked before. It hurts like a motherfucker. Hurts so much he can’t keep his eyes from tearing up, which of course means Neil screaming at him not to cry like a pussy for an extra ten minutes that Billy unfortunately remembers. 

 

Steve is the one who takes him to the hospital instead of school at six o’clock in the morning. Steve doesn’t speak most of the way, simmering with barely suppressed rage

 

“You should tell the truth. Tell the doctors who did this to you.” The words are sharp. Strained. Steve looks like a man that’s about to snap. 

 

Billy doesn’t have a response. It’s taking all his effort to stay conscious. He wishes he had someone else to call. Susan is out of town visiting her mother. Max isn't old enough. Tommy’s license got suspended after his DUI. Billy’s in too much pain to drive himself. Neil would say he’s being a bitch and he doesn’t need to see a doctor. 

 

They pull into the parking lot. Steve helps him stumble into the ER. Waits with him, helps him fill out paperwork. There are x-rays. Painkillers. A nurse puts Billy in a complicated sling that’s supposed to keep him from moving his arm. She’s explaining to Steve what the right way to do it is, because Billy is real out of it. 

 

When prompted, he says that he fell off the roof while cleaning out the gutters. Landed badly. It’s not entirely a lie. He did fall two stories. He did land badly. 

 

“His father pushed him out a window.”  Steve’s voice is calm. Collected. Resolute. 

 

It’s a bucket of ice water crashing over Billy’s head. The pleasant daze of opiates fades as the sheer panic takes over. The nurse is wide eyed. Staring at him. 

 

Fuck. They have his real name. He had to give them Susan’s insurance information because he couldn’t pay for X-rays up front. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

 

“Bad joke, man,” he nudges Steve in the ribs. Please.  _ Please don’t do this.  _

 

“It’s not a joke.”

 

Billy runs. Nobody’s expecting it. By the time Steve realizes he’s bolted off the hospital cot and out of the curtained room, Billy has a head start. He makes it out the door. Flying past nurses and orderlies who look startled. 

 

“Billy!” Steve calls after him. Uncomfortably hot on the trail. 

 

Steve isn’t high. Steve isn’t dealing with intense pain. radiating through his chest and up his neck. Steve has longer legs and he’s going to catch up. 

 

Billy’s limbs don’t want to move right. He’s exhausted. Already slowing down. He’s barely made it across the parking lot. The tree line and the cover of the forest, where he could potentially shake Steve off, seem farther away with each step. 

 

It’s not the first time Billy has run out the doors of a hospital. Because he couldn’t pay. Because before Susan and her office job there was no health insurance. Because they wouldn’t stop asking questions and wanted to make him talk to a social worker. 

 

Billy stumbles in the grass. Falls to his knees. Catches himself on the arm that’s not bandaged close to his chest. 

 

“Billy…” Steve is close. Very close. He walks into Billy’s field of vision, but has the sense to stay out of reach.

Billy sits back on his heels. Staring up at Steve’s paler than usual, stupid, pretty face. Eyebrows drawn together with worry. Looks like he’s about to say something.

 

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Billy might be screaming. His face feels wet. “Jesus Fucking Christ, Harrington. You’re not helping me. You’re making it worse.”

 

“I don’t think–”

 

“Yeah. You don’t think. You don’t know anything. You’ve never had to deal with the sort of shit I deal with every goddamn day of my life, and you don’t even know how lucky you are.”

 

“Billy–”

 

“Do you know what happens if social services gets called? What happens is they come, and they talk to me and Max, and then they leave, and then Neil tries to fucking murder me.”

 

“They wouldn’t let him!” Steve drops down on one knee. Still slightly out of swinging distance. “That’s the point, Billy. If you let people help you, he won’t have the chance to hurt you–”

 

“Shut up!” Billy is definitely crying now. He’s never cried in front of Steve before. Only pussies cry. Billy is a lot of things, but he’s not weak. He’s not vulnerable. 

 

He could defend himself if he really wanted to and he just  _ doesn’t. _

 

He’s almost as big as Neil now. Almost as strong. If he wanted to swing back, he could. But that only ends one of two ways. Either Billy takes the opportunity for a single sucker punch and suffers for it, or he keeps hitting until there’s blood on his knuckles and Neil stops moving. 

 

Billy doesn’t want to kill someone. 

 

He’s on his knees, in a muddy field, sobbing his eyes out, hiccuping, shaking, suffocating, and it’s all because he’s not fucking strong enough to protect himself without lethal force.

 

“Can I come closer?” Steve asks softly. Perhaps sensing the storm is sputtering out. 

 

Billy’s deflating. All the anger draining away, leaving blank exhaustion. Exhaustion is better than helplessness. It’s better than fear. 

 

Billy nods and Steve moves forward. He wraps his arms around Billy so gently. Kisses the top of his head. Wipes the tears off his cheek with the soft pad of his thumb. Steve’s hands are always soft. It sets them apart from the calloused, gnarled mechanic’s hands that have caused Billy so much damage. 

 

“I’m not going back in there,” Billy mumbles against Steve’s chest. 

 

“Not even for a painkiller prescription?”

 

“No.”

 

“OK.” He’s rubbing gentle circles across Billy’s back. It feels nice. Soothing. 

 

Eventually they get back to the beamer. Steve drives them home. Billy undresses and curls up in bed. Steve calls Hopper to say he’s taking a personal day. Then Steve lies down next to him. Cradling him. Billy sleeps.

 

***

 

It’s almost a week before Billy shows up at Neil’s house again. Wearing the sling. Silent and sullen. Neil doesn’t say anything about a call from a hospital. He doesn’t say anything about a claim from Susan’s insurance company. 

 

He lets Billy sit with him to watch the Raiders game on the living room television. He gives Billy a beer, and asks how things are at school.

 

Things are fine.

 

Does Billy have a girlfriend?

 

Been hanging around this one chick for a while.

 

That arm should be healed up in time for the end of the basketball season, right?

 

Yeah. Probably.

 

Neil talks about his glory days, when he was a linebacker in college. Talks about his highlight reel of plays and epic passes that Billy has memorized and could repeat verbatim. Neil doesn’t have any new stories. Whenever they talk, it’s the same old yarns that Neil’s been spinning for years.

 

Susan is working late. So Neil orders a pizza. Max’s eyes widen when she comes downstairs and sees Billy sitting on the couch, arm in a sling. If Billy’s home, he’s usually in his room, except if it’s a holiday, or if he’s doing chores. The couch is a privilege he rarely tastes.

 

He hates that it feels good. He hates that he wants this. Sitting around the coffee table, watching the game, eating a shitty pizza with  _ family. _ He knows it’s only like this until the shoe drops again. It always does. But he’s stupid. Always wants to believe that maybe this time will be different. 

 

He wishes that Neil cared about him. But knows that’s not how it is. So he’ll take this facsimile of bonding and remember it at inconvenient times. When he’s standing outside the school counselor's office, not knocking on the door, bruises twinging, he’ll think about that time Neil ordered a pizza and watched the game with him. The next time Steve asks  _ why don’t you want help _ he will think about the time Neil took him car shopping, or taught him how to do an oil change, or the summer they both spent building an engine from spare parts. 

 

It would be easier if Neil were a monster, but he isn’t. He’s a normal human, with hobbies, and quirks, and some sense of morality. He’s lived a full life. Interacted with plenty of people who think he’s a charming gentleman. The real salt of the earth. Not afraid to get his hands covered in motor oil if it means providing for his family, who he loves very much. Billy’s just a tiny, insignificant piece of that jigsaw puzzle. A piece that doesn’t fit. A piece that Neil has tried to batter into shape. Someday soon, there will be a hole where Billy once was. 

 

Maybe Neil will miss him. Probably not. 

 

***

 

Steve celebrates Billy’s recovery, and the sling coming off, with a pair of concert tickets. Ill Repute is playing in Chicago. Steve keeps finding excuses to take them to Chicago. Billy knows exactly why. Steve Harrington is a lot of things. Subtle isn’t one of them. 

 

_ You know, apartments in the city aren’t that expensive.  _

 

_ We wouldn’t even need a car. My cousin went to college up there and he says you can get everywhere by train or bus.  _

 

_ The Chicago pride parade is one of the biggest in the country. They’ve even got a whole gay district, like San Francisco.  _

 

In Steve’s head, they’ve already moved together. He doesn’t think about logistics. Like physical possessions, how they get transported across such a distance, fees, security deposits, credit checks, and the intense stress of uprooting to an entirely new place where you don’t know anybody. Billy knows all about that. He’s packed up and moved enough times to be a professional. Steve has barely left Hawkins his whole life. 

 

Steve doesn’t think about the what if’s. What if Steve doesn’t like the city? What if they move into a dangerous neighborhood? What if it’s too loud, and their apartment is next to the train, and they can’t sleep? What if it’s not so easy to transfer from Hawkins to the Chicago Police Department? What if Billy can’t get a job at all? What if Steve gets to a place where there are  _ options _ and he realizes he shouldn’t be hitching himself to a disaster like Billy? 

 

There are plenty of gay men in Chicago. Billy knows he can measure up aesthetically. But that’s about all he has going for him. The casual charisma, the ability to manipulate people, the numbness that runs bone deep because a black hole is easier to live with than the truth—these skills he’s developed to survive aren’t positive qualities. At some point, Steve will realize that. And then he will leave. Billy will be alone, just like he’s always been alone, and he’ll be fine. It just makes his chest hurt to think about it. 

 

It’s easier not to contemplate the inevitable. It’s easier to just get in the beamer and drive to a punk show. 

 

They show up at some junky warehouse venue that’s a little too far south to have a marquee or a liquor license. The walls are corrugated metal, and the floors are poured cement. Billy looks the part in ripped jeans and a leather jacket. Officer Harrington sticks out like a bloodstain on white carpet. Billy at least gave Steve a Dead Kennedys shirt to wear, but his carefully coiffed hair is out of place amongst the mullets, mohawks and shaved heads of the crowd. The lack of metal hooked into Steve’s ears or face might as well be a neon sign.  _ I don’t belong here _ . Steve is a good sport. He smiles. He grabs hold of Billy’s hand and tangles their fingers together as people fill in around them, pushing them forward towards the stage. 

 

The opener is some local band. The singer has dyed-red liberty spikes and three eyebrow rings. The songs are fast and loud. Usually Billy would be up front in the churning mosh pit. That would mean letting go of Steve. So he stays put. 

 

The crowd is a sweating, writhing, living organism. Like polyps on a coral reef, stretching their arms up in search of nourishment. Every song makes them bounce and vibrate to a slightly different rhythm. It feels good to be part of something. To belong. 

 

At the set break, Billy buys a red plastic cup full of whiskey from a guy that’s got a junky table set up near the back of the venue with a paper sign hanging off it that says “the bar”. He steps outside to smoke. Steve’s got a gleam in his eye. 

 

As soon as the cigarette’s finished, he hooks a finger into Billy’s belt loop and leads him into the alley. They’re not alone beside the dumpster. He can see two shadows further down the way. Undulating, gasping. Obviously had the same idea as Steve. 

 

It’s easy to forget about them the second Steve leans in for a kiss. The metal wall is cold on Billy’s back. He can feel every ridge, even through his leather jacket. Steve’s hands are warm. Tender. Full of a gentleness that Billy’s never understood. 

 

He still had the occasional urge to ask  _ why. Why are you being so nice to me? Why do you care? Why haven’t you realized what a piece of shit I am? _ People don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts. Kindness has a price, an ulterior motive, or comes as an apology after the fact. Billy’s terrified of the day Steve turns on him. Betrays him. Outs him, mocks him, abandons him… he can’t imagine a world where Steve means what he says. About love and a life together. People never mean what they say. Promises are always empty. 

 

But Steve’s touch is so sweet. His kisses full of longing, even after all this time. He unbuttons Billy’s jeans. Curls his fingers around Billy’s cock. Strokes it slow and steady. Just right. Just the way Billy didn’t know he needed. It doesn’t hurt. There’s no edge of discomfort or shame. It just feels good, and warm, and safe. 

 

It’s embarrassing to come so fast, like the teenager that Billy never really got to be. He feels old, most of the time. Miles older than any of his friends. Older than Steve. He’s seen more. Hurt more. Buried more deep dark secrets that are bound to fuck him up down the line. He feels tired. Wrung out. Listless. 

 

Except when Steve’s lips brush against his and it’s a drink of water in the desert. The constant ping ponging between existential despair and gooey affection can’t be sustainable. It just hasn’t stopped yet. So Billy clings to it. He sinks to his knees in a dirty alley, and sucks Steve’s dick like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. 

 

They walk back into the warehouse, grinning like idiots, and get lost in the crowd once more. 

 

Ill Repute takes the stage. There’s a reckless feeling banging around in Billy’s chest. He wants to scream into the night. Rip his own skin off. He wants to light fires and destroy things. 

 

He wants to hold Steve close. He wants to freeze in this moment and never, ever leave, because he’s watching his favorite band, with his favorite person in the world, and this sort of happiness wasn’t meant for people like him.

 

_ I’m a clean cut American Kid, My mama raised me right I ain’t no skid. I got a job, I pull my own, Got a place I can call my own. I’m a clean cut American Kid, Clean cut american kid. Clean cut American kid. We’re all clean cut American kids.  _

 

Billy still feels the Pull. Stronger than ever. Every minute he’s not pressed against Steve, skin to skin, he’s barely alive. He’s jumping up and down, screaming the words, still holding Steve’s hand.

 

Maybe this is close to a perfect life as Billy Hargrove ever gets. While it lasts, he’ll fucking take it.

 

***

 

Billy always wondered if it would be dramatic. The day he walked out the door, never to return. He’s imagined every scenario from Neil bodily restraining him, refusing to let him leave, to Neil trying to snap his neck, to Neil switching everything around so he can say he threw Billy out instead of saying that Billy left. 

 

Billy graduated yesterday. The waiting is over. It’s time to go. But he’s just sitting on the edge of his bare mattress, looking at the three cardboard boxes he’s packed his remaining belongings into. It’s been a gradual process. Taking things to Steve’s trailer bit by bit, so as not to arouse suspicion. They’ve got a solid plan. He’s selling the camaro to Tommy before they leave. Steve’s gonna drive them up to the city and either sell the beamer after they’re moved in, or maybe keep it if he needs it for work.  

 

They’ve paid a security deposit on a studio apartment in a neighborhood called Lincoln Park. It’s close to the redline, which is apparently important. And also the DePaul campus and Boystown. 

 

Billy applied to transfer through corporate, and he’s got a job waiting for him at another Citgo in the city. Steve’s starting at the Chicago Police Academy on Monday morning. It’s kinda dumb that they’re making him train all over again. But whatever. He still gets paid. 

 

It’s all planned as well as it can be. 

 

Max probably knows. Steve still has some sort of weird relationship with that Dustin kid, and he and Max are friends. Max hasn’t said anything about it. Which Billy appreciates. 

 

Part of him wonders if he should try to take her along to Chicago. But she wouldn’t go. Not with him. From her perspective, he’s as bad as Neil. Billy’s certainly yelled at her more. Broken her stupid skateboard. Tried to rein her in. He tells himself it was to protect her. Maybe he was just angry. He’s trying to work on that. 

 

There’s a soft knock on his door. Neil never knocks. 

 

“Come in,” Billy sighs. Figuring maybe Max wants to say goodbye after all. 

 

But it’s Susan standing there. Looking pale, and tired, and nervous, like she always does. She steps forward into the room and closes the door behind her. Billy can faintly hear the TV playing downstairs. It’s a Sunday. He knows Neil is home. 

 

“I won’t ask where you’re going.” She glances down at the boxes, something like envy in her eyes. Something like wistful pride in her small smile. “Wherever it is, I know you’re going to do great.”

 

“Uh… thanks, I guess.”

 

She reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a crumpled wad of bills. She holds them out to Billy. He doesn’t move. 

 

“Please. Take it.” 

 

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t need it. He’s fine without it. For some reason, he still reaches out and lets her give him the money. There are a lot of twenties, fives and ones. 

 

“It’s not much but… I hope it helps.”

 

It’s obviously whatever she’s managed to scrimp and hide from Neil for the last several months. Billy understands. It’s what he did before he could work. It’s what he’d do if he and Neil shared a bank account. Skimming away a few dollars here and there. Saying the milk or the eggs cost a dollar more than they actually did, and pocketing the difference. Keeping the change from purchases when Neil is drunk and won’t remember. Telling Neil he bought another liquor bottle and finished it the night before while he was blacked out. That’s where his $10 went.

 

“Thank you, Susan. It’s uh—it’s nice of you.”

 

She nods. Hesitating a moment, as if she’s trying to decide her next movement. Billy stands up. Slow, so he doesn’t startle her. He knows the instinct. Braces himself anytime someone moves too fast. 

 

He wraps her in a loose hug. She winds her thin arms around him for a moment as well. Squeezing lightly. Then she lets go, and steps back, and disappears. 

 

Billy gathers up the boxes, stacked one on top of the other, and makes for the door. He descends the creaky staircase. Walks past the door to the living room. Neil looks directly at him. They make eye contact and hold it for at least thirty seconds. Billy’s legs feel wobbly underneath him. His palms are sweating. The tense prickle of adrenaline surges through him. Ready to run. 

 

He doesn’t have to. Neil just turns back to the TV without a word. Billy lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and he leaves. 

 

He’s in a fugue state the entire drive to the trailer. Steve is waiting for him with a cup of hot coffee and the first aid kit set out on the table. He’d wanted to delay things by a week. So that Billy could escape while Neil was at work. He’s also quite obviously been running through the possibilities of how Neil might react to his son abandoning him. 

 

He didn’t understand it was important for Neil to be in the house. Because the house wasn’t what Billy was walking away from.

 

“How did it go—are you—are you OK?” Steve jumps up, ready to play nurse as soon as he gets the go ahead. 

 

In response, Billy sits down on their busted couch and has a panic attack. 

 

Steve gave him that word. Panic Attack. He knew it intellectually before, but didn’t realize it was a thing he could have. When you spend every hour in a state of vigilant anxiety, it’s hard to realize that it’s not normal. 

 

Billy can’t breathe. His head is spinning. He’s tense. So tense. Neil must have tailed him. He’s gonna show up any minute now and smash his skull in. It can’t be this easy. Would it have been this easy before? Has Billy been in a prison of his own making for years? He’s stupid. Worthless. Choking. There’s no oxygen. He’s sucking in gulps of air like a fish wriggling on the docks. It’s just as useless. 

 

Neil isn’t going to miss him and doesn’t care that he left. That’s what Billy told himself was the best possible outcome. But it’s not. It’s the worst. 

 

Steve is hovering at the corner of his blurry vision. 

 

“He… he doesn’t...” Billy hiccups. Isn’t sure how to finish.  _ He doesn’t love me. He never loved me. He wasn’t doing it because he cared about me.  _

 

What’s so wrong with him that neither of his parents want him around? What fatal flaw fucked him up so badly that he can never have a family?

 

This is a rejection unparalleled by any other. You break up with someone, find another partner. He will never have another father. He only got one. And by walking out the door, he’s ruined everything. He can never go back. Things would be so much worse if he ever went back. He knows that. But. But. 

 

Billy is curled in a ball on the floor of the trailer. Face wet. Snot running out of his nose. He’s disgusting. Maybe he hyperventilated? Maybe just shut down for a little while. Steve is there next to him. Rubbing his back. Steve looks concerned, not angry. 

 

“I…” Billy’s throat is dry. “I didn’t say anything—or like—touch you, did I?”

 

“No,” Steve’s so calm. Steady. An anchor in the storm. “You just kind of slid off the couch. Said you wanted to be on the floor. So, we’ve been on the floor.”

 

“I’m sorry I can’t remember.” Billy’s still crying. He can’t stop himself. 

 

“It’s OK, baby. Everything’s gonna be OK.”

 

Billy doubts that. Things seem very far from OK. He still pulls himself into a seated position so he can lean against Steve. They were probably supposed to leave a while ago. But they stay there for a long time. Just breathing. Living. Being together. 

 

***

 

The apartment is on the third floor of an old brick building with creaky wooden floors and radiators that squeal and hiss. It’s always dusty. No matter how many times Billy sweeps, there’s more dust. It seems to ooze from the walls. Or maybe even the ceiling. 

 

They have a small kitchen, microwave, stove, refrigerator and barely enough space to fit a cutting board.  There’s a scrubbed wood kitchen table. A bathroom, with just a shower. Which is fine. 

 

It’s small. There’s no closet, so their clothes are still piled in suitcases. There’s not really space for a couch, but it’s not like they entertain. 

 

There’s one window over the bed, with a view down onto the tree-lined street. There’s always someone walking by. College students on the way to class, girls in jogging shorts walking their dogs, Important People in suits carrying briefcases. 

 

Billy likes it. 

 

Chicago isn’t California. It’s also not Hawkins. People smile at each other on the street and hold doors open. They pronounce their ‘a’s too harshly. They say Sadderday and root for Da Bears. They have a deep seated hatred for ketchup. The city smells like cigarettes, and exhaust, and cooking oil, and it’s different. 

 

Maybe it’s a fresh start after all. 

 

***

 

_ Housewarming Presents _ Mrs. Harrington calls them, as she walks through the Macy’s on State Street with a shopping cart and just keeps adding things, despite Steve’s protest that they have nowhere to put half the stuff. 

 

Billy stays quiet. Hands in his pockets. It's the first time he’s ever met Mrs. Harrington. She’s pretty. Steve’s pretty, so of course she is. She has long brown hair, that’s pulled back into a tight bun. Her makeup is exact. Her knee-length skirt, starched white button down, nylons, and heels, paint the picture. Severe. High Powered business woman. That’s why she’s always traveling. 

 

She didn’t warn them she was coming. She didn’t say anything about the fact that the apartment is a studio, with one king sized bed in it. She looked around, gave a little sniff of distaste and said, “we’re going shopping”. So. Now they’re shopping. 

 

“Billy, dear, hold this for me, would you?” She shoves her little leather clutch at him as she pauses to examine a pile of scarves. Billy holds the purse. Feeling pinned down by a boulder three times his weight. 

 

Mrs. Harrington doesn’t ask for it back until they’re at the register, and she’s spending hundreds of dollars on cups, plates, silverware, paintings, laundry hampers, a standing clothes rack, decorative vases, and a lot of other things Billy doesn’t quite understand and mildly fears.

 

They take a cab back to the apartment. It’s three trips to get all of Mrs. Harrington’s purchases inside. Before Billy’s caught his breath, she announces they’re going out for dinner. 

 

Another cab, to an upscale restaurant called Shaw’s Crab House. Billy has never eaten an oyster. Mrs. Harrington,  _ it’s Caroline, dear,  _ orders two dozen. Steve’s face gets progressively pinker, as she instructs billy to  _ just squeeze a bit of lemon and slurp it up.  _

 

Billy is not sure how he feels about oysters. But he eats a third of them to be polite. He orders the cheapest Entree on the menu—which is chicken parmesan. Steve gets a steak. Mrs. Harrington gets some sort of seafood platter. 

 

She talks. About where she’s traveled recently. London, Prague, Amsterdam. She talks about Steve’s father. She talks about Nancy Wheeler who has started college at Miami University in Ohio.  _ She was such a nice girl, so bright.  _

 

Steve talks. He talks about police academy. The CTA trains and buses. All the restaurants in the neighborhood he’s tried. 

 

Then comes the dreaded question. 

 

“And what is it that you do, Billy?” Caroline smiles politely over the rim of her martini glass. 

 

“I work at a gas station.” Billy maintains eye contact. Refusing to display the shame he might feel. 

 

“Well isn’t that nice.”

 

“Billy is going to start taking classes at community college soon,” Steve pipes up. “He wants to be an electrician.”

 

Mrs. Harrington smiles and nods in clear judgment. Seeing Billy as the failure he looks like. Probably thinks he’s an idiot. A hanger on. Doesn’t realize he’s the only reason Steve’s laundry gets done. The only reason Steve eats something besides TV dinners. Doesn’t realize that without Billy, the utilities wouldn’t get paid on time, they wouldn’t have savings accounts, a careful budget,  _ retirement plans.  _ Whatever. Fuck her. 

 

When she gets up to use the bathroom, Billy waves down the server and picks up the check. 

 

“What—what are you doing—?” Steve tries to reach for the bill fold. To stop Billy from inserting a crisp $100 bill and saying keep the change. Billy has none of it. 

 

Money is what Mrs. Harrington understands. Money is something Billy also understands. It’s power. It’s self sufficiency. They don’t need Mrs. Harrington’s money, and it’s important she understands that. If it means Billy can’t buy any more beer for the rest of the month, it’s not the worst thing anyway. He’s been trying to cut down.

 

When she returns and tries to pay, she seems shocked when the server smiles and says it’s all taken care of. 

 

“Oh, Steve. Thank you honey, you didn’t have to do that—“

 

“I didn’t.” Steve blinks. Uncertain. Obviously wary of this new terrain, where Mommy doesn’t bankroll everything. 

 

Mrs. Harrington’s jaw doesn’t drop, but it seems like a near thing. 

 

“It’s no problem, Mrs. Harrington.” Billy smiles. He’s won this round. It’s clear that he has, when she doesn’t offer them a taxi home. She just hugs Steve, and gives Billy an awkward pat on the shoulder, and leaves for Union Station from the restaurant. 

 

Billy and Steve walk to the train in companionable silence. 

 

“I think she likes you.” Steve squeezes Billy’s bicep as they wait on the subway platform. 

 

“If that’s her being friendly, I’d hate to see what passive-aggressive looks like.”

 

“I mean. She wanted me to marry Nancy. But she’s definitely prefers you to Tommy. She would never invite him to dinner.”

 

Billy chews on his lip. Wants to light a cigarette. He’s always wondered if it was Tommy before it was him. The confirmation sits heavier in his gut than the indulgent food. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“C’mon.” Steve leans against him a little more. 

 

It’s stupid. Steve moved up here with Billy. Not Tommy. Not anyone else. Tommy and Carol and Nancy haven’t come to visit yet, though Steve sometimes mentions it.

 

“It’s just weird meeting your mom, I guess.” Billy shrugs. Forces a smile. “But I’m glad it wasn’t a disaster.”

 

“Me too.”

 

Steve glances around to make sure nobody’s looking at them before planting a kiss on Billy’s nose. 

 

***

 

The first snow is falling outside the window. It’s a Sunday. Steve and Billy are sprawled sleepy across the bed, sharing a joint, putting off all the shit they need to do today like  _ laundry _ and  _ grocery shopping.  _

 

“This might be a weird question…” Billy starts and isn’t sure he wants to finish. 

 

“You’re good at asking those. Shoot.”

 

“How did you know I wouldn’t deck you for trying to kiss me? Like—way back.”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Two years into a relationship, and you’re asking how I figured out that you’re gay.”

 

Billy bites back the  _ we’re not in a relationship  _ that he wants to spit out reflexively. They’re living together. They share a bed, and food, and everything else. They’re building a life in a city far away from their old problems. They’re definitely dating. Arguing it would be moot. 

 

“OK,” Steve takes a long drag. Contemplating. “I mean, I thought you were hot the first time I saw you. I made a point to drop into your work just to see you—even though you were usually a bitch. I dunno, I just felt, drawn to you, if that makes sense. It’s like, electric whenever you’re in the room. Chemistry, or whatever. I honestly thought it was a 50/50 chance you’d try to murder me if I made a move. But I couldn’t help it. I just… I just wanted to. So I got drunk enough to stop being a pussy, and I went for it.”

 

“I’m glad you did.” Billy refuses eye contact. Staring at the ceiling. It’s hard for him to say the words. He still doesn’t say them often. But every once in awhile, in the dark when they’re half asleep. He whispers  _ I love you _ and Steve melts against him.  

 

***

 

Sitting at a vinyl covered table, in a plastic chair, in a Dunkin Donuts off Wabash, Billy sees Mrs. Dorothy Anne “It’s Miller Now” for the first time in nine years. 

 

There weren’t any pictures of her that Neil kept. Memories grew foggy and faded over time. She’s still fairly young. Late thirties or very early forties. She’s still pretty. Curly blonde hair cut short and stylish. Bright blue eyes creased at the edges, hiding behind a pair of square-rimmed glasses. She’s thin. She smokes. She drinks her coffee black. She bought Billy a donut with sprinkles on it. 

 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing she says after they sit in silence for about five minutes. “I didn’t want to leave you with him. But Tony—well—Tony was a piece of shit too and he didn’t want a kid to take care of. He was my only way out. So I… I told myself he wouldn’t hurt you because he hadn’t before… but that broken nose probably wasn’t from a boxing match, huh?”

 

“I play basketball,” is what comes out of Billy’s mouth. Instead of so many other roiling emotions. He expected anger. Hatred. Disgust. 

 

He’s not sure how to label the stew bubbling at the pit of his stomach. It’s close to pity, but not quite. Maybe it’s empathy. 

 

Hating Dorothy used to be the bedrock of everything he knew about himself and his life. Things have changed. He doesn’t need that anymore. 

 

“Did he give you any of the letters I sent? Or did you manage to grab one… ? It’s OK if you just didn’t want to write back. I understand.”

 

Billy was never allowed to open the mail. He doesn’t trust himself to talk, so he just shakes his head. 

 

“I know it’s not worth much, but if I could do it over, I’d have taken you with me in a heartbeat. I’m so sorry, Billy. You don’t have to forgive me. But I regret leaving you behind every day of my life.”

 

“I’m gay.” Billy’s never said it out loud before. Never in so many words. He doesn’t feel a weight lifting off his shoulders or anything so dramatic. It just feels good. 

 

“Well, I hope you have better taste in men than I do.” She smiles. Eyes shiny and wet. “We’ll have to go to boystown—or you will—doubt you’d want to take your estranged mother clubbing. But there are a lot of places where you could, um, meet someone.”

 

“I actually have someone already. I live with him. He’s a cop. He’s… he’s nice.”

 

“That’s wonderful. My god, Billy. What’s his name? Maybe the two of you could come over for dinner if you—if you want to.”

 

“His name is Steve. I’m sure he’d love to come for dinner. He can’t cook for shit and I’ve had to cover the night shift  a lot recently, so he’s been fending for himself. I’m pretty sure he’s eaten nothing but grilled cheese for the past week.”

 

Dorothy laughs. Like a small bell ringing. Billy knows laughter can be sad. But he’s never heard a sound so haunting. 

 

He’s not sure what Steve will think of her. She’s different from Mrs. Harrington’s pristine aloofness. Dorothy’s pink cardigan is threadbare, and her white blouse is dingy, and there’s lipstick on her teeth. She’s probably a little closer to Joyce Byers. Except Joyce loves her children more than anything. Dorothy mostly seems nervous and exhausted. Too exhausted to care about other people. And Billy understands. He’s been there. 

 

Billy thinks that maybe, he could eventually enjoy her company. Maybe not as a mother. It’s too late for that. Maybe as a friend, or a more distant form of family. He’s found that he can get to know people the same way you’d grow a flower. Plant the seed, tend to it occasionally, in weeks and months maybe you’ll have something nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We done it, boys! We rode this rollercoaster. 
> 
> There's more Harringrove trash on the way. I have three mostly finished fics sitting in my folder. Probably to be posted on Thursdays when I don't have too much real life shit to do. No gods no masters, We're All Gay As Fuck 2k19.


End file.
